


Bushman's Rules

by pariahpirate



Category: Overwatch (Video Game), Team Fortress 2
Genre: Gen, Hana "D.Va" Song knows a thing or two about PTSD, Junkrat is full of suprises, Sniper the grumpy granddad, Young Junkrat, mentions of the ALF, ymmv
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-08-08 20:55:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7773052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pariahpirate/pseuds/pariahpirate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jamie doesn't remember his parents - maybe it's the radiation that's made him forgetful, or maybe he just lost them too young to recall their faces. It doesn't much matter. Either way, Jamie Fawkes grew up without them - but he never felt their absence. Never felt lacking. He had his grandfather, and, for an easy-to-please child like him, that was all he needed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bushman's Rules

**Author's Note:**

> I wish I could apologize but ... but I love this idea way too much. I mean come on. You can't just give me two super tall filthy Australians with sharp canines and amazing laughs and NOT expect this.

 

 

Jamie doesn't remember his parents - maybe it's the radiation that's made him forgetful, or maybe he just lost them too young to recall their faces. It doesn't much matter. Either way, Jamie Fawkes grew up without them - but he never felt their absence. Never felt lacking. He had his grandfather, and, for an easy-to-please child like him, that was all he needed.   

 

 

_be polite_

 

"G'day mate!" Jamie all but chirps, waving to his new teammates. Only the man in green waves back, weakly, with a matching smile. The others - the really strong looking woman with pink hair, the tiny woman in a fuzzy parka, the man with the glowing visor, and the speedy girl in the bomber jacket. Jamie feels his nerves rekindle and burn. Roadhog isn't there. He'd be assigned elsewhere, and Jamie feels the void the hulking brute of a man had left. The lack is keen and that makes everything so much harder. 

 

Fuck, he hates being alone. 

 

Jamie swallows his anxiety and tries to keep his smile alight. It feels forced but with the shuttering of the plane beginning its descent, he's reminded of why he's there. He's on a mission with those Overwatch blokes (and sure, he's on strict watch and probation for being an international criminal but according to the cowboy, Overwatch has taken in worse miscreants). He's actually allowed to blow things up this time! The thought of fire and explosions does wonders for his mood. By the time the door lowers, his grin is as wide and real as his signature smiley face. 

 

He's out of the plane with a loud whoop of pure glee, slapping down a mine, detonating it, and riding the blast into the air. He lands, heavily, on the low roof of one of these tiled buildings. Such a pretty place - lots of sun and color and the integrity of most of these white-washed buildings are questionable at best. Why, with the perfect ratio of chemicals and powder the whole lot of 'em could fall like dominoes! 

 

He giggles, and follows behind the majority of the team as they weave through the streets, taking the high path on the roofs for the best vantage point. He waves to everyone who looks up at him, as he's flying, as he's skip-running. It's only polite, after all. 

 

He settles into a nice hidey-hole, tossing a few mines and traps down before the entrance to the whatever they're supposed to be guarding. He sees the speedy girl in the bomber jacket zip about the front, checking the perimeter. When she comes back, a blur of pre-battle excitement, Jamie can already smell the impending smoke of his bombs. 

 

 

_be efficient_

"Sniper!" Jamie hears the cry go out. Fear freezes his blood as he hears his team below him scramble for cover. It figures - the battle they had expected had been too easy. The Talon men they faced were green and pathetic, hardly worth the nitro he  used to make the bombs that splattered half of them. Yeah, perfect, bloody perfect - they were putting on a damn show for that sniper. No doubt the wanker knew their positions, abilities, strengths and weaknesses. They were sitting ducks, primed and ready to be corpses. He hears the haunting crack of a second shot but he does not flinch. Instead his ears help his eyes find the nest because by now it's instinct. He grits his teeth, angles his launcher, and waits. 

 

Another crack rings out. This one follows through. He hears a grunt of pain, but not the empty, rattling sound of a soulless body falling to the ground. A devious grin steals his features. Jamie's cocksure and perfectly at ease once more because this sniper?

 

He's absolute _shit_. 

 

Jamie fires. There's a perfect, calculated arc, and a very satisfying boom. His eyes aren't nearly as sharp as his grandfather's, but he can see the sniper's body burn and break from the force of the blast. He grins, leaping from his spot to group up with the others.  

 

"Got'im!" He grins, flashing a thumbs up at his companions. Most of them stared, wide eyed and slack-jawed. Only the man in green was able to recover, returning Jamie's thumbs up with an equally bright smile. His heart feels fluttery and warm again. The feeling doesn't dissipate four hours later either, long after the victorious flight back to Overwatch's base and long after he's said his daily rounds of "g'night"s to the legitimate members of Overwatch. No, the feeling stays with him, its warm lulling him into a peaceful sleep. 

 

 

_have a plan to kill everyone you meet_

 

A good bear trap, expertly hidden, would be enough to keep the speedy sheila  down for the two seconds it takes to slap a mine to her back and blow her to bits. Not that he particularly wanted to - she did, after all, have the most amazing little pulse bomb that he was itching to dissect. And he kinda enjoyed her chipper personality. It was like a softer form of his own manic cheer, like what he might be if he actually took the doctor-woman's pills instead of grinding them to dust and testing their reactivity (mostly unsatisfactory). 

 

Similar case for the man in green - his speed on the field was his greatest asset. But strengths can become weaknesses, and his is terribly easy to point out and create. Aim a high-power bomb at his feet. Don't even have to get his fancy skates; shattering the ground gives an equal result. If he can't skate, than he can't move, and if he can't move than he's just waiting to be blown up!

 

The gorilla'd be a challenge, but he liked a good challenge. Probably a whole slew of his traps would be necessary - not even to capture and hold the monkey still but slow him down - no no no - even better! A whole slew of small charges scattered and hidden throughout his precious lab filled with all those lovely reactive compounds and chemicals and machines. Remotely detonate and watch from a solid safe distance to see all the pretty sciency colors.

 

The bloody Omnics that Overwatch insisted were people would be exceptionally easy to kill. A single EMP grenade to knock their systems out and then a classic bomb to finish them off. 

 

The cowboy would be harder, only because there was just something about him that almost made Jamie want to fight him fair. Almost. 

 

Jamie twitched, a humorless giggle falling from his lips. Old habits, old habits. He actually likes these Overwatch blokes. He'd hate to be thrust into a corner, having his hand forced. He should relax. He should stop with the contingency plans, but he doesn't. He won't. Knows he won't. Old habits die hard, and this habit still has a long life ahead because it's saved his own skin more times than he'd care to count. 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Jamie's grandfather was a towering bloke with a long face and an owl's stare. Most people found him imposing, even with the occasional addition of a child hanging off him like a baby possum. He was openly gruff and quietly bitter and he sometimes raved for hours about events that had long passed. Regardless, Jamie adored him. Like any parental figure to their child, Granddad could do no wrong. Sure, sometimes he was rough and sometimes he was frightening, but at the end of the day his lap was welcoming to Jamie. Warm and safe in Granddad's arms as he kept his solitary watch, his trusty rifle at his side. 

 

That rifle was the first gun Jamie had ever learned to shoot. It never really meshed with him, never felt right in his arms they way it obviously felt right in his grandfather's. In the beginning this made little Jamie more than a bit disheartened. He idolized his grandfather like any child his age. Wanted to be exactly like the grizzled old man in the weathered vest, and he was crestfallen when he couldn't. It was very clear that Jamie couldn't love a rifle, just as it was also clear that he lacked the patience to handle it. The boy was far too figity, far too prone to distraction and wonton destruction. No matter - the old man had a solution. He always did. 

 

It started with a rare find - an old chemistry book, filthy and exceptionally difficult to read, and a handful of easy-to-find chemicals.

 

"Gonna teach you how to make bombs." He'd grunted, tossing the heavy book into Jamie's arms. He fumbled with it, nearly dropped it twice in his excitement. Bombs were cool and the explosions were always pretty. 

 

"You can do that?" Jamie hugged the book so tightly to his chest that the corners had left tiny imprints into his flesh. His smile was eager, unwavering. His grandfather saw him over the lenses of his cracked glasses, saw a smile as grand as the old morning sun, and he chuckled. He ruffled Jamie's filthy hair with fondness. 

 

"I know enough to get you started. A mate from before fancied me a true friend, 'n he taught me a couple tricks." There was something in his grandfather's voice that caught. Jamie pretended he didn't notice. This happened often enough - every time that his old team was brought up. 

 

Jamie rocked on his heels, "So, we gonna start?"

 

His words pulled his grandfather out of his reverie, and he watched  as a sharp grin takes over his grandfather's features - all teeth, sharp canines bared. 

 

"Let's."

 

* * *

 

 

 

_being amicable doesn't hurt_

 

 

"G'day!" Jamie smiles over his mug of hot cocoa. Nobody lets him near the coffee so they all just make him a cup of cocoa every time he shows up to their little family breakfasts. The joke's on them, though. He generally hates coffee and all it does is just make him sleepy. The speedy sheila, Tracer, stares at him blearily. Still asleep, Jamie figures. He takes another sip of his cocoa and watches the girl clamber around the kitchen in the most graceless still-asleep haze as she starts on fixing herself with coffee. 

 

"Ya'know the cowboy already made coffee -" Jamie says and suddenly Tracer is all too awake and looking like she's not at all pleased about it. 

 

"You shouldn't have coffee!" Her voice is hoarse and a bit shrill today. Had she had a bad night? "And McCree's coffee is absolute shit!" 

 

Jamie blinks. The icky brown sludge is all the same to him, unfairly bitter in every aspect and sleep-inducing. But then it figures that coffee made by different people would taste differently. But it all runs through that little machine anyways? How much variation could that get you? He shrugs and takes a sip of his hot cocoa. 

 

"Well don't drink that!" Tracer barks and Jamie jumps at the sharpness of the command, spilling his drink all down his front and the counter. He doesn't feel the heat, his nerves are too dead to that sensation, but he knows he's got a fresh assortment of 2ed degrees and they're not even the fun type. He looks up at Tracer, wide eyed, and she's wearing the strangest look. Like a mix of shame and fear and some other stuff too. 

 

"Junkrat!" She looks more panicked now, "Don't just sit there! I - Shit! I'm so sorry! Come on, come here -" She's really awake now, and before Jamie can blink she's got paper towels and she's blotting gingerly at the burns. Her brows furrow in concentration and she's being really delicate, like she's afraid of hurting him. 

 

"Doesn't this hurt?" She says and fuck she sounds so sorry. She looks up with her big doe eyes and Jamie can't help his stupid grin and the bubbling laughter welling up in his throat. She recoils a bit. 

 

"Aw mate, you think I haven't been burned before?" He's teasing, light and smiley. Tracer is slow to respond but Jamie's smile brings out one of her own and it's not too long before she's chuckling softly herself. 

 

"This - innit hot cocoa? S'not coffee?" She says after a few seconds of helping Jamie wipe up the spilled drink on the countertop. Jamie's laugh this time is high pitched and unrestrained.

 

"Courtesy of the cowboy!"

 

"Aw shit mate, I'm sorry. I thought -" She doesn't finish her sentence, and she looks uncomfortable again. It's not a good look for her. Jamie feels compelled to help. 

 

"Sheila, if it ain't a flat white I ain't gonna touch it." Jamie sticks his tongue out in mock-disgust, "Coffee's too gross otherwise."

 

"No, you're completely off your rocker there. Coffee's a godsend, and a flat white is just drinking sweet milk with three coffee beans in it. S' pointless, that is." 

 

She's back again, comfortable and chipper as they bicker about coffee for the better part of the early hour. After that, conversation becomes fluid and easy. Tracer's fun and bubbly and her company is like a balm. They take the piss out of various older members and they share wild stories about their stupidest stunts.

 

It's nice. Fun. 

 

"Hey Tracer?" He breaks off the current conversation topic to ask. 

 

"Yeah?" She answers. 

 

"Mates?" 

 

Tracer stares. She doesn't reply. She instead looks startled, eyes wide like a deer caught in the headlights of a raider caravan. Jamie's teeth find his lip and he starts to worry and nibble at the dry skin. He knows most of them don't trust him yet. He can't really blame them - he is a firework after all, live and alight in the palm of your hand, ready to go and burn burn burn. It takes a lot of familiarity to trust in a firework. Still though, he wants to be accepted. He likes these people. A duo's all well and good but he's wanted to be part of a big team ever since he was little. Maybe it's too soon to ask? Eh, there's no harm in asking now. Everything's always worked out in the end before, so this will too! Just gotta stay positive!

 

Tracer opens her mouth, finally, to answer. This is precisely when everybody else shuffles into the kitchen for their morning pick-me-up. The kitchen fills up pretty quickly with other bodies and so many people in such a small space, even if they weren't all chattering yet, makes Jamie twitchy. It's the perfect distraction. Tracer gets swept away in the flow of people - her friends and all. She gets swept up in conversations with others so Jamie decides it's time to make a clean getaway. 

 

He spots Roadhog at the doorway. His hair is down and damp and he's holding a fluffy towel on his arm. He's also totally glaring at Jamie from behind that mask. Ah. Right. It's bath day and Jamie did promise Hog. He did. He fixes his best mate with an easy smile.

 

"I know Roadie. I promised. I wasn't trying to weasel out of it." 

 

Roadhog grunts. _Good_ , he means. 

 

"Oi! Junkrat!" 

 

Jamie pauses and looks over his shoulder. He sees Tracer grinning and waving from a table with a few other members - the green man, Lucio, and the mecha girl, D.Va, if he remembers correctly. She flashes him a double thumbs up.

 

"Mates!"

 

 

 

 

_as long as two people are still left in the world, someone is going to want someone dead_

 

 

Being mates with Tracer, it seems, is a packaged deal in the same kind of sense that Jamie and Hog are a packaged deal. Except Tracer was the special value multipack of colorful fireworks and he and Hog were the illegal kind. That is to say, Tracer and her mates were colorful and not criminals. And, to be quite honest, there was something straining about that. The lot of them had mulled about in various haunts around various bases, chatting about anything and everything and more than once Jamie had added input to the conversation or told a story of his own only to be met with an uncomfortable silence. He's never been the greatest with social situations and human interactions - if it was possible, the opposite runs deep in his blood. It's something he's been striving to fix. He hopes that, given enough time, he'll learn. 

 

They're on Gibraltar's roof today, both Tracer and D.Va dangling their legs over the side. Jamie tries to block out the though that it would be so easy to just push D.Va off the ledge. He buries his energy and attention into the conversation at hand. Lucio's talking animatedly. His brilliant white teeth sit like pearls, in perfect rows, as he smiles. It's entrancing. Jamie could sit, cross legged and hunched over, and listen to the other all day. 

 

He doesn't know how the conversation gets to that point, how it comes to this. All he knows is that suddenly D.Va and Tracer and Lucio are all looking at him, expecting an answer. 

 

"Junkrat?" Tracer ventures, her voice careful, like she's approaching a panicked animal she doesn't know. She is, in a sense. He's barely known her for a month and he's in the throws of fear suffocating him. It very much feels like he's a cornered animal.

 

Jamie can't breath right but he can't let go of that seemingly innocent question. Something about the phrasing just ignited something bad in his gut. The memory, the echo of a voice long dead - and he knows the stabbing pain he feels in his heart is guilt. He hasn't been following the rules, has he? Not all of them, if - fuck, when did that happen?

 

"Junkrat? Hey - hey buddy, c'mon-" It's Lucio. Lucio's hands are on him, one on his back and one holding his bicep and Jamie feels them like a vice. He pulls away viciously from those hands. They burn, and more are coming. Tracer is reaching for him and even D.Va's on her feet. No. He doesn't want their burning touch or their pity. The rules - they'd never been wrong yet. 

 

They'd kill him. They would. In a heartbeat probably, if he ever stepped out of line. No such thing  as loyalty in the bush, what makes the big wide world any different? A nervous giggle falls from his lips as he grips a grenade - where did it come from? Jamie doesn't even remember having any, having brought any... (another mistake)

 

D.Va and Lucio are talking. Tracer looks afraid. They all do, actually. They should be afraid. If they're gonna kill him, well they're in for a nasty shock - or kaboom, as the case may be. 

 

It's so hard to breath. Air feels like water. He's drowning and all he can hear is rushing blood and the voice of a ghost. 

 

Trust. You didn't _trust_ things in the outback. There were nasty things in the outback. Animals. Irradiated animals. People. Irradiated people. Can't trust any of them. That's what Granddad swore by and fuck thinking of him hurts worse than tearing open stitches, worse than reopened bullet wounds, worse than loosing his bloody limbs ...

 

Jamie freezes - twitching still, couldn't stop that if he tried - and the whole world comes back to him. Nothing's blurry and nothing's after him and the air is breathable again. 

 

"One more Lena -" 

"Yeah, he's coming back to us -"

 

There's another boom, and this time Jamie's here this time to see the glorious flash and revel in it. 

 

"S' that good? 'Cause I'm fresh out ... No wait. Got one more!"

 

He's on the roof. He's with Tracer and DVa and Lucio. He's not in any immediate danger. The other three are setting off Tracer's lovely pulse bombs, tossing them high into the air and over the cliffs. 

 

"Remember," he hears DVa whisper to Lucio, "Don't touch him unless he says it's ok."

 

Lucio moves closer. Jamie moves back. He feels uncomfortable, nerves burning, fuses low and mix unstable. The laugh that slips past his lips is high and strained. He feels volatile to his core. 

 

He's ruined their good time, hasn't he? 

 

"T-this was fun m-mates, 'n I'm sorry. For spoiling it. Right." His words spill out of him, tumbling like pebbles. They all stare. It itches like a burn, their staring does. He wants it to stop. So he runs. 

 

 

 

 

_professionals have standards_

 

 

 

He hides in the mountain of pillows and stuffed animals that he and Hog had just tossed in the far corner of the room, farthest from the sight of the door. He buries himself in the warm soft things and tries not to feel. It's been years since he last thought of his grandfather, and it hasn't at all gotten easier. If anything it feels worse. It feels like a fresh loss. Jamie gnaws at his lower lip until he feels the cracked flesh give and bleed. It's been ages since he's cried. 

 

He's a professional. 

 

Professional screw-up. 

 

"... 'M sorry..." He mumbles, holding a stuffed koala close and tight. He apologizes, over and over, again and again. He loses track of time, trapped in a daze of pain and glazed tears. 

 

That's how Roadhog finds him, tear tracks ever-so-prominent on his sootstained face. 

 

_You must really trust Roadhog, huh? He's so big and really kinda scary - huh? Junkrat? Junkrat are you okay?_

 

Trust Hog? Did he? No, no. Jamie doesn't trust anyone, and has always been safer because of it. He's too wise to the everyday tragedies of the Australian wastes. Betrayal was comically popular there, leaving many a raider to lay down their head for their very last catnap. This is why Jamie has the rules. This is why he follows them. They've never failed before, only saved his life a thousand times over. The rules are the only things he can trust now, because they're the only things he has left of his grandfather - fuck he lost everything, even the damn hat, _why is he such a bloody fucking screw up?_

 

Hog is looming over him, moving slowly before him with his empty hands in full sight. 

 

"Where'd you go?" He rumbles, lowering himself down before the pile slowly, taking a seat. He's always so patient when Jamie's like this. He doesn't want it, doesn't need it. Hates it. Doesn't deserve it. But Hog knows him. He really does. The big bloke's got him and all his ticks to a damn science. He just sits there and waits because he knows that if he waits long enough, stares long enough, that Jamie will start to tear up and babble about everything he's felt since the last time the damn broke.  

 

And babble Jamie does. Like bile on his tongue, the words come up his throat and they burn and they fall in chunks and messy splatters. He talks and talks and talks and cries until he's empty and spent. There's nothing left in him to spill, nothing left to say. Jamie sniffles weakly and hugs the plush koala tighter, sooty tears staining its soft grey fur. He wonders if the real deal was this cuddly, because the mutated ones sure ain't. 

 

"They weren't." Roadhog grunts. Jamie looks at him, confused. He coughs, the hacking sound made extra odd and pleghmy by the mask. "Koalas. They weren't so cuddly." He clarified. 

 

"Oh." Jamie says. His disappointment is palpable. He buries his pointed nose in the plush anyways. 

 

Roadhog raises his hand, steady, palm down. Jamie knows the signal, knows the unvoiced question. He shifts, presses his head up into Roadhog's hand and allows the affection. 

 

"Knew Mundy, I did." Roadhog lets his hand fall when Jamie's maxed himself out on physical contact. Jamie gaps like a fish. 

 

"You-?" He stumbles of the sentence, syllables falling and spilling everywhere. Hog grunts, in affirmation? Mocking? Who knows.

 

 "Good man." He continues, "Best sniper Australia'd ever seen. He was a huge leading force in the ALF."

 

Jamie listens in rapt attention. Hog barely talks about his past, only in brief shots of references, never anything more than a sentence. Jamie didn't even know that Mako knew he had a grandfather. Or that he was close to the crotchety bloke. Grandad wasn't close to anybody. 

 

"He always kept to his rules. Be polite. Be efficient -"

 

"Have a plan to kill everyone you meet." Jamie finishes the first set, his voice horse and quiet. His eyes are wide, shiny, in the dim light. Hog chuckles lowly. Jamie flinches, more startled than afraid. Hog really only laughs when he's killing. It's out of the ordinary, which really only worsens the unreal, nightmare quality the day's had. 

 

"Never much cared for rules meself," Hog goes on to say, "S' always been a load of shit I've never needed. But your grandda ... he stuck to his rules. If anyone was around what needed some guidance, Mundy gave the cunt his rules. Bushman's rules. You follow 'em."

 

It's a statement, not a question, but Jamie nods regardless. 

 

"There were some rules what was more important than the others." Again, Jamie nods. Hog is right. 

 

"You know the most important rule, then?" Hog asks as if there was an answer, which is ridiculous all the important rules were equally important, they were all - oh. No. There was one rule. One rule to trump the rest. Jamie knows it maybe a little too well. 

 

Jamie nods. 

 

"Then that's the rule you best listen to first." Hog says, and then he stands. He leaves Jamie alone then, just him and his thoughts. 

 

 

 

 

_trust your instincts_

 

Jamie will, as he always has. 

 

He likes being part of Overwatch. It's the closest he and Hog have ever been to going legit - for real legit no tricks this time - and it's been an experience alright. At first it was terrible, being told what to do and what not to blow up and _Junkrat what are you doing that's dangerous_  (Well of course it was dangerous, you wankers, they're bloody bombs!). But, as with everything, it's stand or perish, and Jamie has no intention of dying any time soon. He stood. Adapted. Learned to call this place and these people 'home'. No place is ever truly safe, but this place has become safer than most to him. 

 

Jamie will trust his instincts because they haven't failed him yet. Sure, they've nearly gotten him killed more than a dozen times over but those were calculated risks and everybody might think him mad for taking them but Jamie? Jamie is very good at math. 

 

This is another calculated risk, but his intuition is with him when he chooses. He's confident, now. Soothed. He smiles softly and nuzzles the stuffed koala once more for good measure. He's sleepy now, fully drained of energy, running on fumes and the embers are low. 

 

Time for a nap. 

 

 

* * *

 

Granddad had a hat that he loved dearly and seldom removed. Jamie had gotten to wear that hat twice - once when he was four, and once when he was eleven. 

 

When he was four, it was meant as a comfort. 

 

He had woken up, screaming and thrashing in his grandfather's lap, babbling about night terrors and evil fire. Granddad held him tight and close until the panic ebbed from his tiny limbs. He withdrew, searching Jamie's tear stained face as if the answers to the world were hidden there. 

 

"What's wrong, 'roo?" He murmured, his big hands cradling Jamie's face, wiping away his tears. 

 

"Scary dream." Jamie choked out before fresh tears welled up and spilled over, "Scary Omnics."

 

Granddad winced at that. Jamie shifted in his lap, curling up tighter. Granddad took off his hat and ran a weary hand through his gunmetal hair. As an afterthought he set his hat down on Jamie's head. Jamie looked up at his grandfather with wide red-rimmed eyes from under the brim of that old, old hat. His face displayed his confusion so clearly. His grandfather had laughed at that - a loud barking cackle that Jamie would forever hold in his heart and memory. 

 

"C'mon rugrat, time for bed." His chest always rumbled when he spoke, like the trembling earth. 

 

"But what if ... 'nother scary dream?"

 

His grandfather remained silent, his sharp eyes regarding him quietly. Jamie squirmed under his gaze. A twitch, the barest ghost of a smile, and grandfather tips his hat with a single flick of his finger, and it fell over Jamie's eyes. He made a noise of protest, huffy and shrill. Granddad's distinct laughter once again rang out across the miles of empty outback. 

 

"Lil' anklebiter..." He hummed a simple little tune. An old, old lullaby. Jamie couldn't resist the gentle lull of the song and the safe warmth of Granddad's arms. He'd fallen asleep then, warm and safe and huddled close to his grandfather's chest. His grandfather had that effect, that easy tranquility. It was what Jamie imagined the ocean being like, peaceful and dangerous all at once. 

 

When Jamie was eleven the hat was meant to be a good-bye. 

 

Granddad swept off his hat and placed it over his heart in a motion that Jamie was all too familiar with. It's what Granddad always did after he killed, a salute of sorts, to show the once-living person their respects. He said it was common curtesy. It was polite. But - but they were just walking through the ruins of a long abandoned town. Granddad hadn't shot anyone, and there weren't any bodies lying around - just heaps and heaps of scrap. 

 

The brim of his beloved hat slid over Jamie's eyes. He pushed it up, mouth agape and fear burning him up. Heavy hands, calloused and aged, rested on his shoulders. 

 

"Jamie ..." He sounded so far away. 

 

"Jamie, you need to run. Now." Granddad's dark eyes were resolute. Cold. "Run and don't look back."

 

He could hear it now. The nightmarish clanking of the massive remnant Omnics. Bastion units, maybe Vangards and Sentinels too. He wanted to protest - why couldn't they both run? - but he held his tongue and nodded. 

 

Jamie ran. He ran until he couldn't feel his legs or the tears on his face. He finally collapsed just outside a wreck of an old farm house. He curled up there, on the half rotted wood porch, and allowed himself to mourn. He took off his grandfather's hat and hugged it as his body shuddered with tearless sobs. He didn't hold any illusions. He knew better. 

 

A spotted sniper was a dead sniper. 

 

 

 

Granddad wasn't ever coming back. 

 

* * *

 

 

_take on challenging work_

 

 

Jamie volunteers for the next mission, and it's a surprise to everyone. It's an escort mission to Numbani - and everyone knows how much the Junker despises the city. 

 

He gets weird looks. In the days leading up to the mission, in the hold of the transport plane, so many weird looks. Questioning looks. He ignores them all with practiced ease. He's not obligated to explain his reasoning. He doesn't even really have the words to explain his reasoning. He just knows that he has to go. Maybe it's to get himself back on track. Maybe it's a need to see something other than the training bots explode. Maybe he's stircrazy and needs to stomp around on new ground. Maybe he just wants to better himself. Maybe he wants to right himself. Maybe he wants to drown everything out and away. Maybe it's everything. Maybe it's nothing. 

 

Either way, he's going. 

 

Anticipation bubbles in his stomach, rising up and throughout him like smoke. He checks over his launcher. Double-checks. Triple-checks. He replenishes his supplies, from his cherries to his mines and each of his specialty bombs in between. He has enough supplies for the mission. He makes extra anyways. It's something to do, to avoid the weird looks. 

 

This is something he needs to do.  It's no doubt going to be a challenge - explosives aren't really suited for escort missions with fragile cargo, and the city is everything he fears and hates - but he needs to do this. Prove it to the team that he's useful under any circumstance. Prove it to himself, too. 

 

 

 

 

_shoot first_

 

 

They meet a great amount of resistance from Talon on the way to receive the shit. Still, something feels off. Something feels off about everything, from the way the dumb grunts don't bother scattering from his bombs to the way Hana mows through half of them in one charge, and that sets him on edge all too easily. They secure the point. They get the transport vehicle rolling. 

 

Lena, Lucio, and Hana are exchanging banter, McCree is lighting up another cigar, and Soldier: 76 looks as if he's reigning in some fatherly instinct. Jamie can tell by the squaring of the old man's shoulders. Roadhog does that often. 

 

Jamie licks his lip, gnaws at it a bit. The nervous feeling that something is wrong hasn't left him. If anything it's gotten worse. He checks his supplies. Reloads. He's at half-stock and down to his last mine. Not good, not good, not good -

 

The team moves out, all huddled around the transport vehicle. The air is thick and charged. They turn a corner and there's a tunnel ahead. Jamie swears he can taste it on the wind. Gunpowder. He raises his frag launcher and unloads a whole round of bright red cherries. The fall is quick, wide beautiful arcs, and he listens to them blow. Small pops and no screams. No shouts. He gets a glare from Soldier: 76. He feels the stern disapproval like fingers around his neck. 

 

The shot he's been waiting for grazes his shoulder. 

 

"Sniper!" Somebody calls out. An explosion - not his, not enough ammonium nitrate to be his, but he doubts the team would pick up on that - rocks the car and they all end up scattered and quickly overwhelmed. Like ants, Talon grunts swarm up from the bushes. From trees. From high up balconies and street-level stores. 

 

Jamie nearly ends up blown away. He'd dropped his very last mine and detonated it a split second before the blast caught him. A quick and messy escape, it launched him straight through some second floor balcony. He lands heavy on his left shoulder, but he gets up and grabs his launcher. There's work to be done. 

 

He rains down bombs from the vantage point he's provided until he's cleaned out of everything he has but his dead-man stock. That's when another shot rings out and he sees Hana leap out of her malfunctioning mech. He follows the line of fire up. 

 

He moves. Hobbles. Runs. 

 

Until he's face to face with Widowmaker herself. 

 

 

 

_a professional wouldn't quit when there's still work to be done_

 

 

Jamie feels the shot, feels the vibrations as it shatters the weak points in his peg-leg. His hands scramble for purchase, for anything as he falls. He hits the wooden floor hard, but he's not down yet. He's not finished. Not yet. 

 

The infamous Widowmaker stands above him in her spandex and heels and smug smirk. Her rifle is held in her hands, lax and cocky. Thinks she's toying with him, like he's a fly in her web. Well that's her mistake for thinking he's done. Hah, and she was supposed to be a professional? Did she think that he'd just lay down and die with his leg out of commission? Her mistake. Fatal mistake. He not done yet. There's a battle going on outside Widowmaker's cozy little nest, and from the sounds of his team yelling, it's hell out there. They need help. They need his help. He's still got a job to do, so he's not quitting now. 

 

He ain't done yet. 

 

"Not by a long shot." He mutters and it's a low growl. He hears Widowmaker shift, hears her take a reflexive step back and he hears her breath catch in her throat but it's too late. She fucked up and the fight's not over yet. 

 

Jamie lunges, launching himself at the sniper, further shattering his peg-leg but he doesn't care about that now. He doesn't think he's got the weight but he's got the height and the feral tenacity. Both he and Widowmaker hit the creaky wooden floor, exchanging weak punches as they roll, deeply engaged in a dangerous game of tug-a-war over Widowmaker's custom rifle. They're both screaming. She kicks him. He bites her. She curses. He curses right back. 

 

It's much quicker a fight than it feels.

 

Jamie wins, wrenching the gun from Widowmaker's long delicate fingers. Her eyes narrow and grow cold. Ah, she thinks he's gonna shoot her, doesn't she? Well. She's going to be very disappointed. He slams the stock of her rifle into her face, knocking her out cold and most likely breaking her delicate little nose. He's breathing heavy, shaking worse than a leaf in a storm due to the adrenaline. He sees something bloody and white. It looks like he also knocked out one of her pretty, pearly canines. He picks it up, a vicious smile pulling at his lips at the hard won victory. 

 

"Now I gotta make a necklace out of your teeth." He grins, using her rifle as a crutch to stand, "Bushman's rules."

 

He can't exactly move much, but he manages to tie up Talon's favorite assassin up with some spare detcord. He also added a few empty shells and some trick mines, just to keep her from squirming. Most people didn't squirm when they woke up in a bed of explosives - even if they weren't live. 

 

He hears someone scream. 

 

He's at the window, Widowmaker's rifle in his hands, in less than a heartbeat. Through the scope he sees the scene and it's not pretty. Soldier: 76 is standing against a handful of those Talon fucks, trying to hold them back from a wounded Tracer. Crickey, he can see how much blood is staining her clothes. He hopes she'll make it. 

 

He bites at his lip as his eyes dart from target to target and nothing seems like a smart shot - until he sees a pipeline. A vent line, probably. If he's lucky it'll be boiling hot vapor. Alright - now he just has to figure out how the fuck Widowmaker's excessive rifle works. He hisses. There's no bolt, what is this? What happens after he pulls the trigger? How does he reload this thing? Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

 

Jamie snarls, aims, and he takes the shot anyways, hoping Widowmaker's rifle isn't a single-shot. 

 

Soldier: 76 flinches at the sound - a reasonable reaction, Jamie thinks quietly as he lines up his next shot, the only sniper on the field was the enemy's. Was. He giggles as the hot steam obscures their enemy's vision. 76 is fine. His visor can see through that probably. And if it can't, then that's fine too. It can double as a smoke screen, and then Soldier: 76 can get Tracer to safety. 

 

Jamie takes his second shot, then a third. He can make out the bulky armored forms of their enemies even through the steam. Missed the apricot each time, but at least each shot was a kill upon hit. "Thanks for standing still!" He crows.

 

He lines the sights up for a fourth shot, pulls the trigger, but all he gets is the click. No more bullets in the chamber, and no clue how to fix that. Now that he thinks about it, he has no ammo for this weapon anyways. Oh well. He lowers the rifle and watches the results of his fine work, seeing his handiwork as the steam clears up and Solder: 76 finish off the rest of the panicked grunts. When he's finished, Soldier: 76 looks up at the nest, his gun at the ready. Jamie leans out the window and waves.

 

"Happy Birthday!" He cheers. 

 

"What the hell-" He hears Soldier: 76's gravely voice, slightly garbled with static over the comlink. Right. Those were a thing.

 

"I got 'em!" Jamie tries to suppress more laughter, "Got Widowmaker too. She's ... ah .... sleeping. Shhh."

 

"How in tarnation did you make that shot? Where did you even get that rifle?" McCree's coming in over the line too, his voice less staticky. Jamie smiles widely. Each moment it becomes a little harder to suppress his laughter. He feels so light he could float away. 

 

"Borrowed it!" Jamie chirps. 

 

McCree tries to say something, probably more questions, but he's drowned out by Tracer and Lucio and D.Va. All of them are showering him with various words of praise and pride. Jamie feels his overflowing laughter bloom into something else as his chest grows tight and his eyes sting. 

 

"Thanks mates," He knows his voice cracks over the com. He hugs Widowmaker's rifle, and he can pretend it's another rifle, from another time for just a little while. It's painful, thinking of him, but it's not the gaping wound it used to be, not even close, "Me granddad taught me."

 

"He must have been one helluva sniper!" He hears Lucio over the com. Jamie hugs his borrowed rifle tighter. He smiles as the good memories come back and the bitter pain of them ebbs away until it's just the dull ache, the phantom pain of something long lost. 

 

"Better," Jamie says, "He was the best." He's found his laughter again as the old wound finally, finally begins to heal over, "He was the right bloody King of Australia!"


End file.
